


by the watercourses

by bog gremlin (tomatocages)



Series: trope bingo fills [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Coming of Age, Domestic Fluff, Dryad Shiro (Voltron), Getting Together, M/M, One Shot, Trees, Wizard Keith (Voltron), Wizard Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatocages/pseuds/bog%20gremlin
Summary: It’s Keith’s sixth year and he’s on the verge of emancipation from the Department for Unaccompanied Magical Minors; more pressing, however, is Shiro’s graduation.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: trope bingo fills [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679653
Comments: 13
Kudos: 119





	by the watercourses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragdollrory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragdollrory/gifts).



> Requested by [@ragdollrory](https://twitter.com/ragdollrory), trope bingo prompt G5: Harry Potter/Magic School. It's vague.

* * *

The trip back to school is uneventful, which is how Keith likes it. This year he arrives at the school grounds early in the day instead of as evening pulls itself over the sky; it’s one of those little rewards he’s acquired over the years, since his home placement changes so often. The headmistress allows some students to arrive early, and Keith is relieved to be one of them. One of the free elves who works in his hall magics Keith’s trunk away to the dormitory, and that leaves Keith with a handful of hours to waste until the annual feast begins. It’s one of those abysmally bright and hot days, where summer hasn’t quite heard the news that it’s almost over; Keith doesn’t bother with a jacket or even his uniform robe. He just re-ties the laces on his shoes and scuffs his hair back from his face before striding across the grounds.

Shiro’s waiting for him just outside the herbarium, right where Keith knew he would be. Shiro had owled him the week before and made the arrangements, even going so far as to draw a careful map of which tree he’d be standing under. Shiro likes making plans and likes including Keith in those plans, and he always comes to school early. It’s part of the agreement for students like Shiro, who have at least one parent with Magical Creature status: time to settle in and reacquaint themselves with the wards about the school. Shiro always uses the time to catch up on his homework, because he only  _ looks _ perfect. He procrastinates on his History of Magic essays just like every human Keith’s ever met. 

It’s still a surprise to see him, the way it’s always a surprise to see Shiro after time spent apart. Every year brings a news transformation. This time, his prosthetic arm is made of living wood, and Shiro makes his fingers grow like the blooming branches of a pussywillow so he can make tangles in Keith’s hair. The little floral nubs are soft against Keith’s face; he wonders if Shiro can feel the heat of Keith’s blush. 

“Better watch it,” Keith says in lieu of greeting. “You might break a finger on one of the snarls I’ve got, then where will you be?”

“I’d just grow another one,” Shiro says. “You need to take better care of yourself, someday your hair’s going to blind you to the obvious.”

Shiro’s arm is an extension of his body, and he’s the sort of magical hybrid who uses his body as his wand (all the obvious jokes have been made. Usually, Shiro’s the one making them). His mother is a dryad, which explains why he’s so utterly beautiful, and also why he’s the go-to source for Herbology homework help: it’s a stereotype that willow trees can reveal all the answers a petitioner seeks, but Shiro hasn’t done a whole lot to disabuse his classmates of the notion. 

“That’s why I don’t brush my hair,” Keith says, leaning into the touch. Despite the barkskin, Shiro’s hand is soft and gentle. It feels good to be touched, after another summer of distance. No one hugs magical strays, especially not teenagers. “It’s like giving a dog a bone to gnaw on: my hair can’t sabotage me if it’s too busy trying to unpick the knots.”

Shiro combs out all of the snarls while they trade little welcoming jibes. The hair-combing is almost more of a tradition than the welcome feast at this point: Shiro’s done it every year since they became friends. It’s the way Keith transitions from a summer away to the fall at school. Shiro says it's because Keith is his friend, and the way dryads take care of their friends is by intertwining their root systems and sharing information or nutrients. Keith’s doesn't have a root system, though; Keith doesn’t even have a regular home to call his own. They’ve made do with gossip and detangling.

Next year, Shiro won’t be present to do this. Keith doesn’t make a habit of complaining, but he’s especially careful not to make a sound of protest, no matter how hard Shiro pulls at the tangles. He’s prepared to miss it. 

* * *

Keith grew up in the magical foster system. It wasn’t all bad: he lacked a consistent home, but most of the wizarding families the agency sent him to were nice enough. A lot of them were mixed-blood houses where one spouse was magical and the other wasn’t, and they hadn’t decided if having kids was right for them yet. Keith still doesn’t know how he feels about being an early warning sign for someone else’s familiar obligations, but he was never treated  _ badly _ . After a while he’d even figured out how all of those assignments would shake out, more or less. He’d spend months on his best behavior and the couple would be kind but a little awkward around him. After a month or so, once he started feeling comfortable, his magic would start seeping out of him. In Keith’s case, it was always something to do with fire. 

Most of the time, it was harmless. One summer he was on a farm and he accidentally enchanted the pumpkin patch so all of the squashes grew to three times their usual size before spontaneously roasting themselves. That was okay — there had been a lot of pie to eat in the aftermath, even if Keith’s never felt quite the same about desserts since. But a couple of cicadas had got caught in the broadcast of his magic and that was harder to explain. Grosser, too, even if cicadas don’t bite. It’s harder to deal with a large, horny insect that plants itself on the nearest stationary object and vibrates like a loud, sad fiddle until love comes around.

Sometimes things didn’t go so well. He’d been with one family for almost two years — he was nearly eleven — and had started to hope that this time he wouldn’t have to pack up his rucksack at the end of the school year. But then they’d found out they were expecting a baby, and off Keith went, back to the group home. That’s where he got his letter: 

> _ Keith No-Name  _
> 
> _ Third Garret Room _
> 
> _ the Smallest Bed _
> 
> _ Under a Red Blanket  _
> 
> _ Lodgings for Unaccompanied Magical Minors  _

It hadn’t been a surprise, more a cause for relief. He knew where he’d spend most of the next seven years. 

Shiro had been the biggest surprise in the entire school. Time applied itself to him with a shade more vigor than it did the average wizard, so he was tall and remarkable even at twelve, when he stood in front of Keith’s group of first years and shone like a beacon. Shiro always looks silver and gold in the later summer, but at the time he was the most fantastic person Keith had ever seen. He’d singled Keith out when Keith would have loitered at the back of the line.

“You’re shining,” Keith had said, immediately wishing he hadn't spoken. But Shiro smiled, and seemed the gleam brighter.

“Not everyone can tell,” he confided. “What’s your name? You’re going to be something. I want to keep an eye on you.”

Their exchange of names led to another revelation. Keith had heard stories about Shiro before arriving at school, because Shiro was a magical prodigy — and half dryad! The school considered itself quite forward-thinking, to have accepted him, even though Shiro would have such a short life before he rooted and became a tree; it’d been all anyone talked about while Keith had scrounged for second-hand textbooks. Keith had mostly let the commentary slip by, since prodigies were boring.

“Prodigies are extremely boring,” Shiro agreed, when Keith mentioned this. “But it’s just like being a member of a grove back home: if you look the part, they won’t see anything else. And that’s when you can have some fun.”

Keith had thought that being important to other people meant you had to stand out. With Shiro, right from the start, it had been more like standing underneath a shelter (and even better: a shelter that handed him snowballs as soon as they were formed to launch at their sworn enemies during the winter free-for-alls. For all Shiro had the strength of a tree, Keith had the better throwing arm). 

* * *

Keith’s in his sixth year now, and for the last two summers he’s gone back to the same house. It’s a group home, one run by an elderly wizarding couple — two men who finish each other's sentences and spend a lot of time knitting hats for Muggle babies recovering in hospitals. Keith can probably go back there this summer, and maybe even for the summer after he finishes school. He hasn’t asked. 

He’s turning seventeen in a few months and he’s been waiting for the day he can cast magic without a permit. Once he’s old enough, Keith will be emancipated from the Department for Unaccompanied Magical Minors’ care, and he’ll be on his own. His school fees for his last year at Hogwarts are being covered by a grant — the group home supervisors made sure to tell him as soon as the news came in, because Keith is considered something of a flight risk. He’s a little too magical for the system to want him to leave school before his education is complete. Keith’s not any kind of creature, at least not that anyone’s been able to tell, but: his magic burns hot. His acceptance letter was, essentially, fire safety. 

“Well,” Shiro had said, reading over the ensorceled documents with him, “we knew they were idiots in that department, but at least this time it’s working in your favor.”

“Yeah,” Keith sighed. “Just in time for N.E.W.T.s.”

“Bet you’ll score higher than me,” Shiro had said, cheerfully. 

* * *

Keith watches the first years as they’re sorted into their houses. When it was his turn, the hat wanted him to go to Ravenclaw: it kept saying something about his mind, and the way he saw things. But Keith had insisted on following Shiro, despite the brevity of their conversation. AFter talking to the prodigy, Keith wanted to stand out. No one stood out in Ravenclaw. 

Slytherin hasn’t been all bad. 

Keith helps herd their new first years back to the dormitory after the feast. They get smaller every year and he ends up at the back of the line, teaching the littlest girl how to cast a charmed fireball to light her way. 

Shiro leads the group. Keith can see him, branches wide and welcoming as he explains the curfews and passwords and revolving stairs that make up the dormitory. Keith’s grateful they had their time together in the gardens. It was a satiating visit. Right now Keith can focus more on the first-years and on retreating to his own bed.

Shiro’s the head of school this year, but Keith isn’t concerned about finding time to talk. They’re friends; even if Shiro’ll hardly have time to eat this year, he can photosynthesize. Keith’s not anything, and he likes it that way. Photosynthesizing means long afternoons sitting in the empty Quidditch field, even in midwinter, reading textbooks and scrawling essays on parchment that’s been enchanted to repel snow. As long as the summer heat persists, it means that Shiro shucks off as much of his uniform as decency allows so he can sunbathe and study at the same time. Keith always enjoys the view, and he enjoys watching Shiro’s admirers get so flustered that they nearly walk into the lake. 

As the year turns (and after Keith turns seventeen), Shiro invites him to Hogsmeade. Keith’s never been, because getting permission to visit the town was an impossible task for a ward of the system. 

“I know you’ve never been, of course,” Shiro says, too loud. “So I can show you around the place. Let you in on all the good buts.” He’s so performative when he’s pretending that he and Keith have never snuck off the castle grounds and gone out for a midnight run through the forest, finishing up the excursion with a shared hot drink in the village. 

Keith nods seriously. “Thank you, sir,” he says, faux-earnest. “I’d appreciate your guidance.”

Shiro laughs, but his arm sends up a showy burst of flowers. Keith’s not sure why he’s so flustered. “Perfect,” Shiro says, and then he offers up one of the blossoms to Keith; bemused, Keith bends his head and allows Shiro to tuck it into his hair. 

School’s in session. Shiro’s always around. Keith’s hair is never tangled during the term. 

They walk into the village side by side at the end of the line of students. Keith thinks it’s so they can keep an eye on the straggling third-years who are determined to ruin their first taste of freedom, but Shiro disabuses him of the notion.

“They’ll cause a stampede,” Shiro says. “If we go this way, we can get a nice glass of cider before walking down by the old shed.”

Keith loves the old shed. It’s supposed to be haunted, but it’s more likely it was a hiding place for the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Wizarding War and no one felt like commemorating it with a plaque. There are just so  _ many _ memorials from that war; the plaque-makers of the Wizarding World probably threw up their collective hands and said that enough was enough. This one is battered and disreputable, and it reminds Keith of his favorite foster placement: he once spent a summer with a retired herbology professor who told stories that were as amazing as they were improbable — even for a wizard. The shed has a gorgeous thicket of flowering willows set around it, though at the moment, their leaves are getting ready to fall.

“This is the best spot,” Shiro says. “It reminds me of my home grove. C’mon, pick a seat and we’ll have our picnic. I had Hunk from Hufflepuff make it special.”

“Why?” Keith asks, settling down comfortably in the loam. “It’s not really my first time here, you know that.”

“No,” Shiro says. “But it  _ was _ your birthday last month. Make a wish!” He brandishes an apple with a candle stuck to the peel. Shiro knows Keith’s not fond of sweets. Keith told him.

“Shiro,” Keith says, heart full. “Thank you.” He closes his eyes and leans close to the apple cradled in Shiro’s wooden hand. The little flame it’s lit with is magical and won’t burn Shiro’s twiggy extremities, but Keith still takes a breath and utters a little counter-charm before kissing the flame out. Fire has never bothered him. 

“Care to share?” Shiro asks. 

Even if Keith weren’t superstitious, this is a wish he can’t say out loud. “It’s a secret, Shiro.”

“I know,” Shiro says quickly. “Just making sure you do, too. You don’t always give things the amount of belief they need to work.”

“I have plenty of faith,” Keith says mildly. He takes the apple and tosses it into the air, pointing his wand at it so the skin gleams and slides off the flesh in a long, continuous loop; that’s good for another wish. The apple falls to his cupped hands in paper-thin slices. “I just put faith in things that matter. It’s like having a bank account.”

“Do you have a bank account?” Shiro asks.

“I have a Muggle shoebox,” Keith says dryly. “Full of Muggle money and a couple of Galleons. You know that.”

“Right, Matt calls it your hope chest.”

“Matt reads too many historical novels,” Keith says. “I get emancipated this year. The Department’ll probably arrange an account for me before then, but there’s not much to put into it. I need to find a place to stay.”

“Right.” 

They eat the apple slices. Keith keeps them in his cupped hands and leans forward for each bite, nibbling like an animal presented with a trough; Shiro takes one slice at a time. It’s a comfortable silence, as most silences between them are. Keith focuses every sense he’s go on the moment: the way it’s a little too cold on the ground and the roots of one of the willows is wiggling like it wants to rise up and say hello to Shiro; the thin-crisp sweetness of the apple in his mouth; the crunch of leaves and the faint creak of the shack in the wind, the echoing yelps of students trying unfortunate flavors of candy. It’s deeply fall, and the world smells like woodsmoke and leaf mold. Keith can smell Shiro, too: Shiro always smells like spring, wet and green and about fifteen minutes from releasing a cloud of pollen. He’s young for a dryad and he can’t help it. The sap in his veins is fast and furious; it’s why he’s so determined to make his mark on the world. Shiro once told Keith that willows grow fast and large because they aren’t hardwood trees. Keiuth wonders if that’s why Shiro is so determined to have a legacy, be it in his grades or his flying or the people he leaves behind. 

“I have to find a place, too,” Shiro says. 

Keith blinks at him, letting his eyes fall out of focus so he can just see the shape of Shiro haloed by the low-slung sun. “But don’t you always go back to your family’s riverbank in the thicket?”

“I can do that,” Shiro allows. “I usually do. But it feels like it’s time for a change — I’m not ready to put roots down yet.”

“What did you have in mind?” Keith doesn’t think he sounds hurt or horrified at the news that Shiro is going to go away. He’s become accustomed to the thought of Shiro turning to wood, of his skin mottling over with bark and his lovely face sinking into the shape of his heartwood. The thought of Shiro taking root has hung over the school for years. If Shiro doesn’t root — that means he’ll go hungry. Keith doesn’t know how long Shiro can wander before he’ll wilt. Even now he has days where he takes off his shoes and dips his feet into the lake by the castle, digging his toes into the muddy banks and sighing at the soothing murk of nutrients that rushes into him. 

He must not hide his feelings well enough. Shiro wraps his wooden arm around Keith’s shoulders, cradling him close, the way Keith used to hide in hollowed-out tree trunks as a child and pretend he’d found a house of his very own. 

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro says. “It depends on you, you know. I don’t have to root for years and years — I’m part human. I might not have to root at all. I was hoping I could go with you.” 

This is hope, scissoring its way in. Keith always falls for it, every time. “Shiro, of course you can stay with me. Wherever I go! I can look for a place by a riverbank, it doesn’t have to be — ”

“Don’t be noble,” Shiro huffs. “I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter where you want to go. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the middle of the city, or in an American desert. As long as we can have a bathtub and a little garden plot, I can be happy. And the others back home are in favor of it, too — my mother tree thinks I should see the world. And who better to see it with than you?”

“I still have another year left,” Keith says. He eats the last slice of apple and tangles his sticky hand with Shiro’s, flinching a little at the licking sensation of tiny roots lapping at the juice on his skin. “That tickles! — Do you mind waiting?”

“Keith,” Shiro says, and kisses him. “I’m a tree. A year is nothing.” 

* * *

Keith passes his N.E.W.T.s and skips out on the final lazy weeks of the term. He’s graduating; all that’s left is the ceremony, and Keith never places stock in ceremonies. He’d skipped his own emancipation ceremony, too, and he keeps all the relevant documents in a fireproof box under Shiro’s bed. Once they leave the country, he’ll have to find a new place to keep it safe. Just in case. 

Keith falls out of the fireplace at the local pub and shakes off the ash quickly before pulling his trunk through. 

“In a hurry?” One of the regulars jeers goodnaturedly. Keith knows they’re a regular because he’s used this same Floo every time he’s left school for a holiday. “I thought you and your boy were established!”

“Hey Sal,” Keith responds. He tosses over one of his precious coins. ‘“Thanks for the Floo. I don’t like to ask Shiro to light a fire at our place.”

“You’re a good lad,” Sal says. “I saw him walking home from work a bit ago, if you rush you can still surprise him.”

Keith does want to rush. He magics his trunk small and weightless and tugs it along beyond hill; once he’s out the door of the pub, it resembles nothing so much as one of those little trollies that old people use to do the grocery shopping. 

Shiro’s in the bath when Keith gets home. He wouldn’t be, if he’d known Keith was coming, but Keith likes surprising Shiro. He knows that Shiro is always where Keith expects him to be: it’s the nicest thing. 

“Hello?”

“I came home early,” Keith says, bursting into the bathroom. Sure enough: Shiro’s submerged up to his shoulders in warm water, sucking at a straw jammed into a bottle of spirulina and green juice. Every break Keith’s had from school has led him home to this sight. It’s the equivalent, he thinks, of bursting in on one’s partner as they have a whiskey at the end of the day.

“Keith! You got your exams back?”

“Passed everything, thanks to you,” Keith says, stripping off his own robe. “There might be something to this starting your own business thing — you can do correspondence teaching from anywhere in the world.”

“Mmm, but then I can’t go on adventures with you,” Shiro says, making room for Keith to join him in the bath. It’s soothing. The hot water draws out the natural pain-reliever willow bark produces, and bathing with Shiro is like lying in a cup of herbal tea that’s guaranteed to ease the postural aches Keith has from his final rush through exams. “Welcome home. I feel less criminal about kissing you now.”

He kisses Keith then, languorously. Keith responds well to such encouragement, and the greeting goes on for some length of time. When they break apart, Keith splashes him harmlessly on the shoulder, admiring the way the barkskin soaks an ever deeper color under the water. 

“You say that like you’ve been harboring criminal intentions this whole year,” he scolds.

“Well, haven’t I? I took up with a schoolboy.”

“Ugh,” Keith says with feeling. “If anything, I’m robbing some kind of tree-cradle. How old will you grow again?” He steals a sip of Shiro’s drink; it’s gone clotted and lukewarm and has more kale in it than any reasonable human being should even consume. “Blech. How about we soak our cares away and I treat you to some real chlorophyll?”

“Throw in some hummus and you’ve got a deal,” Shiro says, dropping his juice over the edge and drawing Keith down to rest against him. “Or humus, hah.” 

They were lucky when Shiro found this flat: the tub is immense. Keith braces one palm against the cast-iron shape of it and coaxes it to warm, so the bathwater doesn’t cool prematurely. 

“So tell me,” Shiro says, letting his roots trail idly in the water. He keeps making little eddies, whirlpools. “Where are we going first?”

“I was thinking we could see the world,” Keith says dreamily. He’s got his chin hooked over the rough bark of Shiro’s shoulder and they’re belly-to-belly, warm and wet and content. Since they’ve gotten together, Keith’s learned that the wood runs down Shiro’s back and chest in beautiful, thready veins. He’s also learned how much Shiro enjoys puns, and has gotten used to the sheer number of times he’s made a joke about having wood; they’re young. It’s to be expected. 

“Yes, but  _ where, _ ” Shiro insists. “I’ve been in anticipation for months.”

“Aren’t you the one always going on about patience?”

“That was different, you wanted to drop out of school two months before you finished your exams. I was trying to be a good influence. I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“California,” Keith sighs. “I want to see the Redwoods.”

“I don’t think I have any relatives out there.”

“So? I definitely don’t have any relatives. I just want to see the trees. Maybe we’ll meet some stately old-timer who can convince my sapling boyfriend to be less of a flirt.”

“Hah,” Shiro says, sounding like wind rushing through a forest of branches. His chest expels a rush of air to make the noise, and Keith relishes the way his own body sinks down and then bobs back up on Shiro’s inhale, like a buoy. “I make one joke — ”

“You’re mine,” Keith interrupts. “I haven’t had anyone who was mine before.”

“No more jokes about mistletoe, then.” Shiro smooths his hand through Keith’s hair, teasing it out of its braid. 

“No more invasive parasitic plant jokes at all,” Keith grumps. “Really, Shiro. I have enough to deal with.”

They stay in the water until Keith’s skin softens and wrinkles into pruney ridges. When they emerge, he’s gone pink with the heat; when Keith takes a bath, the water never cools. Shiro towels him off and bundles Keith into their bed, draping quilts around him and winding his wooden hand into Keith’s hair to sop up the water. 

Shiro looks healthier than ever. The water makes his muscles seem even more substantial, and after a long soak like this one, he’s got enough energy to cast a thousand spells. Or, more practically, to help Keith unpack and repack his trunk. Out come the school books and uniform robes; in go Shiro’s possessions and two changes of Muggle clothes each. Both of them like to travel light. 

It’s funny, Keith thinks, on the verge of sleep. How he always wanted a place to call his own, but now he’d rather have a person instead. 

He’s draped across Shiro’s chest in their bed while Shiro stays up a little longer, probably reading one of his terrible spy novels. The light of his therapy sun lamp doesn’t bother Keith, who can sleep nearly anywhere. Shiro’s got one hand in Keith’s hair, smoothing out the bathwater tangles. In the morning they’ll stubble down the stairs and to the little shop three blocks away for Shiro’s morning green juice, and Keith will drink three cups of scalding tea. And from there: California, possibly. 

Keith is a wizard. Magic has always been a part of his life. But this, here: it’s one of his wishes, too, and it’s stronger for the wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> Shiro-as-a-dryad is loosely inspired by the folktale of the Willow Wife, which, like all folktales about magical spouses, ends badly. No sad endings here. He’s just part-tree.
> 
> Did you know, [I'm on twitter](https://twitter.com/boggremlin)?


End file.
